


for shame deny that thou bear'st love to any

by Angelicasdean



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftercare, Aftermath of Torture, Anal Sex, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Lives, Canon Compliant, Chapter 4: Saint Denis (Red Dead Redemption 2), Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fast burn?, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sex, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hosea is best dad, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Quick burn?, Secret Relationship, Sweet, Tags May Change, Until it isn't, aka fuck colm and his goons, alot of fluff, arthur is just a soft MAN, but they suck at it lmao, charles is so.....soft, he has a heart of COTTON HE'S SO SOFT, himbos, whats the opposite of slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23601931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelicasdean/pseuds/Angelicasdean
Summary: "But Arthur is selfish, and his heart had started beating for Charles, and he holds him tight that night, because Arthur won’t tell Charles how awful he is, and how Charles deserves better, because his heart is on fire in the best way possible."or, Arthur falls hopelessly in love, and might have saved his own life in doing so.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 19
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter one- (Promise) With my love's picture then my eye doth feast, And to the painted banquet bids my heart

Arthur knows he’s a mess. He knows his emotions are very rarely in check, despite what the fools around him say, he never, once, felt proud of himself for what he does. It seems like ever since he outgrew his anger, despite what Dutch may think or say, at the age of seventeen when Hosea taught him how to see the world and its beauties; the pull of the trigger weighted on his conscience.

Which, too bad for him, because it seems ever since they headed down to Blackwater, there hasn’t been a single day where his gun hadn’t lost a bullet. Where he hadn’t felt that odd stutter in his chest, like his heart was physically protesting. Often times he felt ashamed of himself, for even _feeling_ that way. Dutch parades him because he’s a good _killer,_ he’s brute, and strong and cold and not entirely _human_ when it comes to business. He’s scary, he knows that, but often times he isn’t actually dangerous.

They were dragged from Blackwater to Colter, carrying more dead and wounded than safe and unharmed, and poor young Jenny had died, as well as Mac. Or at least, that’s what he heard. Davey was half dead, moaning in pain, Sean was missing, John had a bullet in his leg.

And Charles… Charles got his hand burnt.

The man had insisted to help them, though, but Dutch had refused as he dragged Arthur back out into the snow in search of _something_. When they came back, it was with very little food and a newly widowed lady.

Charles was waiting in the snow, on guard duty despite Dutch telling him to rest. Arthur pushed through the hills of snow between them, reaching for the rifle Charles held in favor of handing him a cigarette. They were both worried, but they were both tired. And more often than not, they usually were men of little words.

Charles pressed against him, though, leaning into what little warmth Arthur could offer, shoulder to shoulder, a cigarette passed between them. Something settled in Arthur’s heart, like a small reassurance than whispered to him safety. If only for a second. Despite the cold and the heavy hanging of death around them, Arthur’s head threatens to loll and lay on Charles’ shoulder.

They pull away when Bill grumbles past them, into the warming cabin, and there’s a look that’s shared between them. “Let me look at that hand?” Arthur suggests, and Charles nods, and without needing to say anymore; follows him into the empty cabin where Arthur’s belongings had been placed.

If you ask him, how or why or when or _what,_ he’ll reply that he doesn’t _know_. One moment, he’s cleaning Charles’ burns, wrapping it up as carefully as possible; then next his face is flushed red, and his hands are somewhere under Charles’ coat. Charles is placing soft, delicate kisses across his neck and jaw.

They don’t go anywhere, and they don’t go past exploring touches. But he invites Charles to lay beside him, to spare him from the cramped room where he’s supposed to sleep.

It’s just that, for a long while, it’s _just that_. Sometimes Charles steals a kiss when they’re alone, and they hold each other fairly often, more than Arthur would expect. Once out of the snow, things pick up a pace, they go on hunting trips, and they usually stretch it so they have to spend the nigh together, beside each other. Deep in the woods where they can kiss and share an untold secret underneath a tent, where they could be just _them_. Together.

It’s odd, because Arthur had expected nothing, and yet everything came to him. He didn’t feel the need to change, like he had with Eliza and Mary, he didn’t feel disconnected from his life, or that he was living two. All he was, was just _him,_ he was himself. Maybe that’s why their relationship seemed to grow so seamlessly, because in the end, nothing changed. They were just closer, and growing more so everyday. Most nights they’re sitting by each other, in front of the Campfire doing whatever they would have done if they weren’t together. Charles whittling and Arthur just dosing off to Javier’s guitar.

It seems that the burdens he carries always fade off on nights like there, and before he knows it, his head is against Charles’ knee and his eyes are closed. He’s still awake though, but only half so.

The air seems much more lighter, and the fire warms his fingers with a pleasant tickle, Javier’s guitar is singing a slow, soft, quiet tune that all but prompt Arthur to sleep. Something tickles his scalp, and it takes a moment to realize Charles is carding his fingers through his hair. It’s pleasant, very much so, and Arthur wants to lean into it, but he’s suddenly aware of how many people are around.

They’re not alone, they’re in camp, where everyone can see.

Somehow it doesn’t bother him as much as it should, as much as he _thought_ it would. It’s more an edge that makes him more aware, but he isn’t particularly irked.

So he leans in, and Charles’ fingers run through his hair, and Arthur can feel his shoulders relax with every stroke.

Lenny comes back the next day, with news that Micah had gotten himself jailed. Of course, Dutch tasked _him_ with the rescue.

Arthur doesn’t know _what_ he expected, really, nothing good ever comes when Micah has a gun in his hand. He had called himself Arthur’s brother, and the discomfort that bloomed in Arthur’s chest was almost unbearable, so he only looked away.

Coming back to camp almost took _too_ long, and he felt like he had his tail between his legs with how much guilt he felt. Charles seemed to pick up on it almost instantly, the glance they share, even from far away, makes Arthur feel seen in a way he never imagined.

That night, Charles stayed beside him until the sky began to lighten, and before they parted to head to sleep, what little they could get; Charles held his hand tightly, and pulled him into a gentle kiss. It set a small smile to Arthur’s lips, and he had felt just a bit better, at least, he hadn’t gotten nightmares that night.

It’s not that long after that Arthur asks Charles to ride with him, just so they can watch the land, hunting not in their agenda. Just the road under them and the horizon in front of them, their horses close to each other and little words spoken. Until Charles asks Arthur if he wants to hear a joke, and like a cracked dam flooding, they couldn’t stop talking to each other.

Silly things, jokes and anecdotes, old stories that they look back on fondly. Somewhere in between they set up camp, and Charles tossed him salted beef to munch on, and their night didn’t change much. Charles looked downright angelic, smiling beside him, wide and carefree and eyes sparkling with childish joy when he heard of Arthur’s clumsy history. The fire reflects against him, and his dark brown eyes seem to turn a deep red, and it’s enchanting. Arthur can’t help but feel like this is it for him, if he can’t make _this_ work then he’s done for.

Charles is everything he ever dreamed of and more, he’s someone that Arthur would have never thought would want him, just like Arthur wants him. Of course he’s afraid he’ll lose him, or that Charles will see him to what he is, a killer, a thief, a no good man. But Arthur is selfish, and his heart had started beating for Charles, and he holds him tight that night, because Arthur won’t tell Charles how awful he is, and how Charles deserves better, because his heart is on fire in the best way possible.

When Horseshoe is needed to be evacuated, Charles and Arthur ride out east, following Dutch’s word till they reach the south. They find a foreign family, and Arthur can feel a deep simmer in his chest when the two kids cower behind their mother, who speaks a language neither he or Charles know.

Charles is gentle, and reassuring, voice low and soft and hands in the air. They end up helping them, and Arthur is handed a bar of gold, it’s too heavy in his hands, and he wants to give it back. The German man just smiles at him, thanks him again and goes on his way.

Charles had already left by then, to redirect Dutch and the caravans. He spends the night alone, doesn’t even bother setting up his bedroll or tent, only building a small fire and falling asleep against a tree.

The south isn’t kind to folk like Charles, Lenny and Javier. Tilly had told him so when he played a round of dominoes with her, and he had promised to protect her, and by extension, he silently promised himself to protect the others. He remembers that Lenny had almost gotten lynched, and that was further west in strawberry.

Charles doesn’t go out with him much more, and Arthur understands. They spend the nights together, when Charles is on guard duty, Arthur keeps him company. It’s strange, Arthur thinks, feeling so much longing to someone who’s right here, someone he’s shoulder to shoulder with. He wants to feel his touch, on his cheek, the gentle caress they used to share, or the reassuring thrum of his heart against his back. Wants to feel Charles against him, under him, above him, anywhere, wants to trace the scars on his cheek, his chin, his neck. He can, but he doesn’t, because well… is he ready?

With Mary, he had these feeling, he wanted to hold her and love her and be with her. But she’s a woman of high society, and those actions come with marriage. It’s not often that she let him hold her hand, and the kiss they shared was brief, and followed by long weeks of silence because of shame. She kissed an _Outlaw_ , out of wedlock, in a field far away from the city. She told him it was wrong and they can’t.

Maybe because there is no marriage between two men, or maybe because Charles is an Outlaw just like him, these feelings, the urge to touch him, seemed to have amplified. Or maybe it’s something he never wants to admit to himself. Something he’s always been afraid of.

Often times Arthur finds himself contemplating his life, his choices. Hung upside down in Colm’s basement, alone in the darkness with the steady ebb of pain in his shoulder, his head pounding from the blood flowing through it. Arthur can’t help but think of how he got to here. He’d made several wrong turns, and maybe joining the gang had been one of them. Then again, where would he be now. Probably dead before he turned sixteen.

He can’t be ungrateful, not after everything Dutch and Hosea had done for him.

Still, he’s hanging, in Colm’s basement, and he feels as though he’s about to die. The pain sure does like to murmur that to him, and when he isn’t getting the life beaten out of him, he’s left alone to think. Often times, he can only think about his regrets, often dreams about his fears. It seems several days have passed, since Colm had stopped taunting him that he’s the bait to Dutch’s demise.

His punches turned angrier, and he started to taunt that _no one_ will come for him. If Arthur thought that being the reason Dutch is arrested stung, then, that had burned. He couldn’t help but feel how true it is, here he is, bleeding out, alone. Dutch probably fooling Sheriff Gray, Hosea playing cribbage with the Braithwaites. Charles…

He doesn’t like to think about what Charles might be doing, last they parted, he had promised to meet him later that night, to spend the night together hunting the Panther south of the Braithwaite estate.

Does he think Arthur simply forgot to attend? Got caught up doing something else and ignored him? They’d been talking the day before, about what _they_ are. They hadn’t reached a consensus, but it was nice, a little scary, having Charles look at him with so much expectation, only to back away. And he so sorely wanted to admit it, that untamed feeling gnawing at his heart. How every time Charles is near, Arthur wants to draw to him, like a seashell, always hopelessly dragged back under the beck of the sea.

He so desperately wishes he’d said it, now, when his consciousness is barely a weak wick surrounded by dying embers. He wishes he’d yelled, whispered it, wrote, carved, kissed his love; his absolute devastating love into Charles skin. Repeated it until the tune is so familiar he can hum it in his sleep, sung it while he kissed him, smiled more when Charles would give him flowers. Hugged him, held him, carded his hand through his hair, hunted more, touched him _more_.

He wishes, if it’s his dying breath, to let Charles know that this, _them_ , it’s real and it’s true. It’s huge, so much so that it scared Arthur. It’s the kisses they share, and the touches that linger. The way they hold each other, it’s how vulnerable Arthur allows himself to be, how Charles gives him secret smiles. It’s the flowers that litter his journal, and how many times Arthur has drawn Charles into empty papers. It’s the poetry Arthur wishes he wrote, it’s the songs he regrets never singing. It’s everything, it’s what life is to him.

It’s everything worth living for.

And by God is he going to live for it.

Just to tell him, to hold him one more time. To kiss him deeply and write it down six hundred times how much he loves him. ‘ _I love you’_ over and over again ‘ _I love you, I love you’_. His embers rekindle, and the flame that burns at a simmer in his chest suddenly bursts, a bright, big explosion behind his eyes. Like a match takes to gasoline, it spreads and it burns and it prompts him to reach for the file that’s only so far away.

It helps him push through the pain of cauterize his shoulder, where the shotgun shell mighy still remain. When his lids threaten to close, when he’s still too far away from safety, Charles laugh echoes in his ear. Praelia perks up as soon as he stumbles towards her, giving a low neigh, and Arthur shushes her. He can’t waste too much time, but he makes sure she’s not hurt. He knows how bastardly O’driscolls can be, but they seemed to have not harmed her. She kneels when he struggles to hoist himself up, taking off before he spurs her.

The wind is cold against his skin, and the speed threatens to make him fall off. He can’t rightly hold himself up, and he doesn’t feel the need to once he passes the last O’driscolls and the gunshots die down. He leans against Praelia’s saddle, hand on her mane and the other around his saddle horn.

He’s tired, and sleep seems to drag him by the ankles, and he hopes he wakes up.

It’s night when he wakes up again, hurried hands keep holding him. First his arm then his side, up to his shoulders. Warm, too warm, his face feels like a flame. He opens his eyes, finds brown ones staring back, and he almost mistakes them for Charles’, but they’re too young, and they’re a bit too dark.

“Hosea! Dutch!” Lenny shouts, “Help, someone, Arthur, he’s-“

“What is going on?” Dutch’s voice booms, and Arthur takes the shoulder Lenny offers, but it doesn’t matter, he falls off the saddle anyway. “Arthur, my boy-“

“Where’s Charles,” Arthur asks, “I need to-“

“What happened?” Hosea asks, voice tinged with worry as he kneels down, and behind him, Arthur finally sees him. Standing tall, strong, looking down worriedly.

Arthur reaches out for him, mindlessly, deep in his mind knowing that he’s making a scene. But this is important, goddammit, and the breath feels heavy in his chest and he’s not too sure if he’ll live through this. So he _needs_ to say it, it’s a must.

Charles grabs his hand, squeezing it tightly, knees in the dirt while he scans Arthur with his eyes. His gaze lingers on the wound, and Arthur tugs at his hand to get him to look up, “I’m sorry-“ his voice is slurred, and his vision is blurring terribly, and he can’t help but push through just to say this. If he dies, then at least his last words mattered, “I’m sorry I should’ve told you, I should’ve-I didn’t, I was sc- I was scared”

“You’re alright, Arthur,” Charles soothes, and Arthur tugs at his hand again, and Charles realizes he needs to let Arthur get this out.

“I love you, you don’t understand-“

“Arthur,”

“No, I’m going to die-“

“You’re going to be fine,” It’s angry, and Arthur blinks when Charles’s hand cups his cheek “You’re hurt, but you’re not going to die”

“Charles-“ Arthur protests weakly. He _isn’t getting it._ Goddammit, why isn’t he understanding.

“No, Arthur, promise me,” Charles swipes his thumb across Arthur’s cheek, “Promise me, you’ll say that when you’re better, when you’re not delirious and half dead,” Arthur blinks. Words slowly seeping in, and he nods, “no, say it,” Charles insists, and he doesn’t know if it’s his blinking consciences or his doubtful vision, but Charles’ eyes seem to glisten, almost like he’s about to cry. It squeezes at Arthur’s heart, and he nods again.

“I promise,” Arthur says.

“then, come on,” Charles grabs at his union suit, “Let us take care of you,”


	2. Against my love shall be as I am now, With time's injurious hand crushed and o'erworn

It’s takes a bit, three long weeks, before Arthur finally manages to dress himself, feed himself and stay awake long enough that Hosea lays off a bit. His fever had lasted longer than anyone anticipated, and his shoulder waved the threat of gangrene in their faces. Thankfully he wasn’t awake most of the time, and when he was, his mind was clouded with morphine and whatever Hosea put in his health brews.

He remembers bits and pieces, of people visiting, taking rounds to make sure he’s well. Charles usually visited him with the cape of night behind him. He’s sit beside him, often times Arthur remembers just looking at him, his very presence comforting. It’s dangerous, how easy it is to feel better around Charles, how much of his comfort had depended on him.

But it’s dangerous, in the sense that Arthur will go anywhere blindly to protect this, this feeling, to protect Charles. He never understood Hosea, when he had said his love for Bessie made him stronger, but vulnerable. He thought he had, when he loved Mary and felt like a kind on a mountain, but losing her had broken him in a way that left him cold. But not dysfunctional. And when he had Isaac, he felt something similar, but Isaac was his son, and his only blood family. He felt equal parts fear, and love and happiness when he held his baby boy.

If he lost Charles, he can’t help but fear he might not be able to go anymore. Hosea had told him, after Bessie passed, his life had gone several shades grayer. Food had lost its taste, sleep lacked its comfort and the drink had lost its happiness. His entire life revolved around surviving to see the next.

For the most part, Arthur forces himself to not think of it. The possibility of losing him, it makes his heart feel like it’s about to burst and his lungs as though they’re collapsing.

“It’s good to see you back on your feet,” Charles says, and Arthur turns to face him, smiling softly at how concern still lingered in those warm eyes.

“It’s good to be back on my feet,” Arthur replies, “it was getting old, staying in bed”

“Haven’t noticed,” Charles chuckles, and Arthur rolls his eyes. So what? He wanted to have a bit of independence, at least do his business alone, “Do you want to head out?”

“I’d love to,” Arthur beams, and Charles smiles at Arthur’s goofy grin. They head to their horses, where Kieran had taken good care of Praelia, her golden fur seemingly shining, dark mane braided. She swivels towards him, and he gives her a pat between her ears. His fingers are still numb, and there’s a shake to them, but Hosea had told him that might last longer-term. He shakes his arm, clenching his fist and looking towards Charles. “Where to?” he asks, and Charles stares at him for a moment, eyes glinting before spurring Taima forward.

“Follow me”

They end up in a cabin in New Hanover. Charles leads Taima and Praelia to where a stack of hay, apples and carrots wait for them, as well as two buckets of water that seem to have been recently changed.

“Did you plan this?” Arthur asks, unable to hold his smile when Charles looked at him, almost embarrassed.

“Thought you’d want a vacation…after everything,” he explains, fingers curling beside him, and Arthur goes to grab his hand.

“Thank you,” He says, squeezing Charles’ hand, “really”

Charles leads them inside, and the cabin is nice. The bed is made, and it looks clean and fresh, with red covers and white pillows that look better than the ones in Valentine’s hotel. Charles goes to light the fire, and Arthur takes in how _pretty_ the cabin is. The vegetables and fruits placed in baskets by the window, the nice ebony painted walls, to the neat cloth draped over the small table for two.

It’s… it feels too dreamy.

“You did all this?” Arthur asks, voice soft with disbelief, and Charles places a warm hand on his bicep, fire now burning and making the cabin warmer.

“Yeah,” Charles places a gentle kiss to his jaw, “for you,” he adds, and Arthur could feel his cheek flush.

“for me?” he echoes, and Charles hums a confirmation.

“You deserve it,” Charles says, and Arthur can feel the piles of reasons of why he _isn’t_ jump to his mind. He knows Charles hates it when he says things that discredit himself, so Arthur swallow them down. Seems, his face had been more readable than he thought, and Charles’ small smile drop, and his eyes turn sad, “You do”

“I didn’t say anything,” Arthur whispers, mostly because Charles is so close.

“I can see you thinking it,” Charles steps in front of Arthur, hands holding head of Arthur’s arms till he’s held in place, “You deserve to be treated nicely,” Charles says, firmly, and Arthur can’t hold their shared gaze anymore. It feels like Charles’ eyes are slowly lighting a fire in his soul.

Arthur’s far too shy to look into them.

“Okay, Charles,” Arthur mumbles, yielding to him when he lead Arthur to the bed, seated him before 0ushing him back. It sets something in his chest, sparking several flames into his chest. His face flushes even more, and Arthur looks away when Charles bore down on him.

God, if Arthur could engrave him into his memory. Like that, towering over him, looking so Devine with the natural light casting a halo around him. His expression is warm, and his hair is falling around his shoulders and God. _God God God. He can’t say how much_ he _loves_ him. How much he wants to stay in this cabin, like this, warm, comfortable, safe and _with Charles._

He’s a bumbling bastard at his core, though, and when Charles bends down to lay on top of him, innocent in his actions, Arthur can’t help but laugh. It’s not a loud sound but it makes Charles peak from from here his face had slotted against his neck, and Arthur smiles at him, his heart beating faster even though nothing had changed. The consistent warmth inside him hadn’t changed, hadn’t wavered or increased, and his heart still accelerated just under the proximity.

“What’s so funny?” Charles asks quietly and Arthur threads his fingers in Charles’ hair, running through the soft strands peacefully.

“I’d die for you, you know,” it slips out, and Arthur adverts his eyes when Charles’ expression turned fond, soft and sweet. It’s far too fond to be meant for someone like _him_ , a killer, a thief, a no good person. Despite all that, Charles still plants a soft kiss to his neck, and Arthur looks back again.

“I know, you fool,” he whispers, “I’d rather you live for me,” and just like that, Arthur seemingly melts into the bed, and Charles rests again, head on his chest, carefully avoiding the sore area in his shoulder.

It’s quiet for a moment, before Arthur remembers, “I love you,” he admits, again, and Charles’ hand tightens around his bicep, Arthur goes on, “I meant what I said, back then, when… when I got back”

“Arthur”

“You told me to say it, when I’m better, and I am now. I love you, Charles,” Arthur repeats, turning to Charles would be beside him, instead of over him, tipping him into bed, which barely fits them both, “I wanted to say it, I almost gave up… but I wanted to tell you, because you deserve to know”

“That day,” Charles draws in a breath, closes his eyes and Arthur can’t help but draw closer, pulling them flush together. “You said you were dying,” he grits out, and for once, Arthur is shocked by the anguish that reveals into his expression, even with his eyes shut, Charles’ mouth is sealed, pointing slightly downwards, and his jaw his clenched, Arthur can see.

“I’m sorry”

“No, no,” Charles opens his eyes again, palm gently coming up to rest on Arthur’s cheek, “Seeing you like that, I… I couldn’t handle thinking about you dying, and I couldn’t handle thinking about you dying _after_ you told me you loved me,” Charles explains, “I didn’t want to think… on the brink of it all, I was going to lose you, not after everything,”

“You’re not going to,” Arthur says, and Charles looks at him in a way that seeds doubt into his soul, _oh won’t I?_ Charles’ expression says _I won’t lose you? Are you sure?_

“I sat beside you everyday,” Charles goes on, “I prayed, and I never had before,” he admits, in a tone that might me ashamed if it weren’t for the fire in his words, “and I called for a God I never believed in, someone else’s God, Swanson’s, not mine, and I prayed, for hours and days and weeks that you’d wake up,” a shuddered breath, “I prayed I’d get to tell you, that you’d get to say it, I promised every time, I promised God that if you live, and if you get better, I’d never take a day for granted, that I’d never fall short on doing good and being good,” Charles sighs, staying silent for a moment, before looking up at Arthur again.

A purely dumbfounded Arthur, with eyes wide like a scared doe facing a mountain lion, with his mouth almost agape, “You fool, Arthur,” Charles whispers, “I love you too, and I always will”

Arthur’s face twists, trying to stop himself from pouting when the tears pressed against his eyelids, and he doesn’t _cry_. Arthur _doesn’t cry._ He’s a grown goddamn man, a few sweet words….

“You’re too good to me,” Arthur says quietly, a vain way to keep his voice from cracking. His face buries into Charles’ chest, and a part of him he didn’t know was missing slotted as soon as Charles pulled him in tighter.

“You deserve all my love, Arthur,” Charles whispers to him, hand tracing a gentle line across his spine, “You deserve to be happy,” he continues, “and know that you’re loved, and wanted,” a small kiss lands on the top of Arthur’s head, and Arthur buries his smile into Charles’ shirt.

“You do too,” he replies weakly, and Charles slots Arthur’s head under his chin.

“Maybe,” He says, “as long as it’s you, I’d stay alive just to hear you say it”

“That I love you?” Arthur asks, and Charles’ arms squeeze him for a moment, and god, if it isn’t the best feeling.

“Yeah,” Charles breathes, and Arthur settles into his arms, warm and safe, and it almost draws him into slumber. Despite how much rest he’s been getting, he’s still exhausted from fighting fever and drowsy from the medicine Hosea would force him to take. Charles seems to pick up on it, “You can nap if you want,” he mumbles, and Arthur hums in response, “I don’t mind laying like this for a while”

“Thank you,” Charles doesn’t answer, and Arthur let’s the gentle lull of Charles’ heartbeat draw him to sleep.


	3. To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.

After that day, everything seemed much calmer. Between them, at least, the gang had been slowly toying with fire until it burnt them. Burnt them in the shape of a bullet in Sean's head, and blood on Arthur's hands. Their return was filled with no glory, the 'deal' Bill had cooked up now soaking in the streets of roads alongside the Grey's blood. Arthur doesn't return, with Bill burying Sean's body; Arthur couldn't stand riding beside Micah. He wanted to strangle the man, and with no witnesses, he might betray himself and actually do it.

But maybe he should have returned with him, maybe he would've ended up saving young Jack. Abigail screaming at them, damning them all had been usual to his ear while setting up in the abandoned manor in the swamps. Arthur thinks bitterly about his brief holiday with Charles, how everything seems against them being happy for too long. God forbid they have stability.

A pity party he shan't participate in, though, not with how the gang seems to have faltered. Two hits within twelve hours, a hit so large that even Hosea's blood is boiling. Arthur doesn't remember seeing him that angry--angry enough to arson a house--in a long, long time. Not since Annabelle's kidnapping. A little boy taken seemingly from the middle of the camp in the middle of the day, most of the men, all of the women around and awake.

No one takes it well, least of all Abigail, with full rights too; that woman has gone through far too much as a mother. Arthur really tries to hold out as a pillar, but the backlash he constantly got felt a bit damning. Yet, he didn't sleep until John was holding Jack to his chest, and Jack chattering excitedly about something called _spaghetti,_ and all the Italian words that human lizard named Bronte taught him. That man made Arthur's skin crawl, with his eyes roaming the two idiots and their leader on his tiny couch, sipping at some drink that had Arthur feel dizzy just from taking a whiff of it. But they got Jack back, after graverobbing and escaping by skin of their teeth and no bullets fired-finally, Arthur thinks. 

The celebration afterward paid for it, listening to the gang shout and sing and whoop in victory. Arthur doesn't hang around much, sounds too loud for his ears, and seeking some whiskey. Grins at Charles, who had stepped back and let the gang celebrate. 

Arthur stands close to Charles. A little drunker than he thought he was, Arthur slots himself against Charles' side, who smiles down at the drunken outlaw cuddling against him. "Hey," Arthur drawls drunkenly, linking an arm around Charles' back.

"You're drunk," Charles notes, still softly looking down at the jester making a fool himself--who often calls himself Arthur Morgan. 

Arthur chuckles at the thought, tries to get some seriousness to him, but his head is light and his brain is on half function. And he's in love, most of all, so he drawls "and _you_ ," he presses a kiss to Charles' jaw, "are pretty" he mumbles, " _pretty_ ," he repeats, "pretty gorgeous!" 

"Oh, you fool," Charles chuckles, arm coming up to hold Arthur back so they don't both tumble to the ground. Arthur hums against Charles' neck, pulling back to look back at the camp then back at Charles. Implication almost floats out of Arthur's very being in every way but verbal, Charles sighing and shaking his head, "you're drunk, Arthur"

"Not _that_ drunk," Arthur murmurs, leaning his head to Charles' shoulder, "Just one beer"

"I don't believe that," Charles says quietly.

"Two," Arthur corrects, then counts his fingers, "maybe three...four?" he raises five fingers, watching as Charles raised an unimpressed brow, "fine," Arthur stands up straight, "come sit with me at least, join the celebration?" Charles nods a confirmation, and despite what Arthur suggested, he leads Charles to the table nearby instead of the campfire. 

It's only a few moments of peace between them, Charles toying with Arthur's hands between his, rubbing circles into Arthur's palm and wrist while sipping a beer he picked from a crate. Makes Arthur remember he never truly saw the man drink before, not anything past a beer or two. What would a drunk Charles be like?

Arthur blinks slowly up at him, with eyes that don't know how to conceal affection, blinks like a trusting cat, then out of the corner of his eyes; shapes pique his interest. He tries to focus on whoever is trudging the borders of camp, too big to be a wolf or cougar, a bit too thin to be any type of bear. He squints, blinking the fuzziness out of his eyes before giving up, "wh's that?" he asks, and Charles follows his gaze, Arthur taking to look up at his expression instead of the blurry shapes farther away.

Charles lets go of his wrist, hand on his gunbelt, and slowly standing up. Arthur makes a confused sound before following suit, walking in Charles' footprints as they stalk the camp, sneaking almost, Arthur has enough wits to him that he doesn't ask; just follows. Takes out his gun when Charles does, focuses on the struggle that becomes apparent in front of them, Kieran, Arthur realizes with sinking dread. Rope around the poor man's neck and two hulking figures wrestling him to the ground, and with how frail Kieran is, despite how he has rounded a bit under Mary-beth's and Grimshaw's care, he's still more poking bones than muscle; kid never stood a chance.

He aims steadily from the shadows, Charles only a beat after him, and it's not too long after that two loud shots are fired, and two men drop to the ground. Arthur ambles through the mud to make sure Kieran is still alive, hearing hisses in the forest that were not of crocodiles or alligators, glances up only to find a butt of a gun slamming against his nose. Arthur fires in a haste, head woozy with the drinks in his belly and the gun he took to the face. He caught the attacker by the middle of his torso, and Charles isn't too hesitant to obliterate the rest of him, shotgun blasting the man's head off. Arthur turns away from the grotesque sight, urging Kieran to get on and sit up while the rest of the gang joins the fight, Karen grabbing Kieran's shirt and dragging him to safety. 

Arthur wipes the blood off his nose, making sure he's not getting decked by a gun again as he heads deeper into the forest, following Javier as the scour the forest for any others. O'driscolls, Arthur would bet his life on it, he hadn't seen their ascots but who else would do this? Maybe petty Lemoyne raiders, but those men have not one ounce of discretion in their body, they wouldn't settle for kidnapping, they'd blaze the camp to the ground and rain bullets on them. 

At least he's sober now, Arthur muses bitterly to himself, reloading his pistol despite it having a near-full magazine, shaking the last of his drunkenness off. He really hadn't drunk that much, unlike, say, Karen; who Arthur hopes has been guided back to the house and did not join the fights. A good shot she is, but drunk? Lord save whatever she's aiming for. Arthur snaps back into focus when shapes darted across his peripherals, and before anything can happen from his side, deadweight slams against his skull and Arthur groans as his shoulder hits a tree. 

Hands wrap around his middle, pulling him away harshly. The shape he had followed appears again, grabbing his ankle to stop him from leveraging himself away from them. 

This time he confirms his suspicions, dirty green ascots waving in his face, and for just a minute he's back to that night; when his shoulder was blown out for no good reason other to be cruel. He kicks away, hearing the sadistic laughter in his ears asking if he's dead.

"Settle him down," a thick Irish voice hisses, and a moment later his middle was released and an arm wrapped around his neck instead. Arthur still kicks, more panicked now when his vision blurred severely, and he almost forgets the pistol in his hands in his blind fear. 

A shot, blind and lucky, has his leg finally fall to the ground as the O'driscoll gurgles his own blood and falls to his death. 

" _You piece of shite,"_ The arm around his neck tightens, and Arthur tries to push them both to the ground, slamming his elbow into the O'driscoll's side, feeling the hold on him slowly let. It's not too early that the O'driscoll finally lets go.

Arthur spins, despite how harsh the air had become barren in his lungs, ducking away when a gun nearly shot his nose off, scolding himself when the bullet that ran past his ear was far too close. He's getting sloppy, now, especially when he stumbles like the drunkard he is, nearly catching another bullet. 

A short scuffle ensues, where the O'driscoll tries to grab Arthur by the neck, but Arthur is far heavier than he had anticipated. Soon enough, the O'driscoll was on the ground, life slowly seeping out of his bloody nose as Arthur threw fists with every penny and ounce he has. Which to say, not that much, but it does the job. 

His arms feel heavy and tired when he finally steps back, shakily returning to the gang, ignoring the bodies that littered the path. John and Javier aren't huddled with the rest, but Arthur notices them doing rounds by the front gate, and soon after, Bill and Lenny are going to help them. Dutch looks like he's a second away from commanding him too, but his eyes dart to his bleeding nose, and where a cut is across his forehead from whatever hit him in the head--probably a rock or a log--and instead jerks his head towards the house. A silent agreement to let Arthur rest, and he's grateful for it, especially with the headache blooming as the sky begins to lighten. 

Charles is waiting by the door, handing Tilly the rifle he'd been holding. Arthur would wave him away, but he doesn't feel too well, and having Charles nearby doesn't seem like a bad idea. Really, when has it ever been?

"Hey," Arthur says, voice barely there, throat warning him against clearing it. Charles crowds him, fingers ghosting around the bruise surely forming around his eye, Arthur can feel the ebb of heat already, in a few hours it'll probably be sore. Charles frowns a little, and Arthur shies away from his eyes.

"I'll get the kit," Charles mumbles, fingers tracing Arthur's jaw softly. 

Arthur doesn't want to admit how comforting the gesture is, calloused fingers against his skin, the ghost of Charles' touch remaining even when the man pulled away. Arthur watches him go, rolling his shoulders and sighing to himself, flexing his jaw and turning to head upstairs to his room. 

Most nights Charles doesn't join him in bed, mostly due to guard duty, but the nights that he does Arthur cherishes. Despite the heat of the swamp and the constant rumble of large predators nearby, Charles' arms around him, and his breathing beside him soothe him to deep sleep. Even Hosea would remark about how Arthur seemed much healthier, the bags under his eyes become less of a constant under Charles' diligent care. Arthur really got lucky there, catching the best man he knows and having him somehow fall in love with him. 

He can already feel guilt sneaking up on him, unworthiness, and Charles somehow enters the room exactly in time to drag Arthur away from it before he got too deep into his own insecurities. An angle, Arthur is almost sure of it, especially when his delicate but rough hands smoothly wipe the blood off of his face. Their thighs touching, Arthur instinctively leaning into Charles' touch, despite the spike of pain when Charles' hand-pressed slightly against his nose. Broken probably, now that Arthur thinks about it. 

"How are you feeling?" Charles asks, tone low and soft, and Arthur feels a little bit of tension ease out of his shoulders. He really needs to not let himself slip so far into codependency, it's starting to get dangerous, how much he needs Charles. But right now? with Charles brushing his hair away from the wound across his temple, he can't bring himself to feel too bad about it. 

After stitching up his head, and wrapping it carefully, Charles insisting Arthur not exert any effort for a few days in case he has a concussion. A promise Arthur doesn't know if he can keep. Charles lays them both down, tired limbs slotting together until Arthur is enveloped in a tight and comfortable hug. They don't really bother for a blanket, the swaps are muggy and warm on their own, and Charles' heat is enough for him. 

"Can you stay with me for a few hours?" Arthur mumbles, seeing as Charles might restrain him to the bed if he tries to get up, but staying alone seems far too cold of a thought. Charles hums, Arthur feeling the vibrations through his chest, it's strangely a nice feeling.

"I don't see why not," Charles answers, holding Arthur closer, "I'll change shifts with Javier" and with that, Charles buries one of his hands into Arthur's hair, careful not to loosen the bandages as he traces shapes into Arthur's scalp. The steady movement lulls Arthur into half-sleep, distracts him from the growing headache bouncing between his temples. 

It feels like a blink before Arthur opens his eyes again, but he must be wrong because the sun was shining outside in full blast, Charles breathing evenly under him. Must've fallen asleep somewhere.

Charles' arms are still a vice grip around him, squeezing him in a way that somehow makes his muscles feel at ease. Despite how he really, truly doesn't want to leave the bed, his throat feels as dry as New Austin's air, fire spreading up to the roof of his mouth. "Charles," Arthur whispers, "lemme go," he tries to pull himself out, Charles slowly blinking awake, looking at Arthur with squinty eyes.

"Where are you going?" He asks, and Arthur rolls his eyes.

"Not anywhere far," he pulls Charles' arm off of him gently, "gotta drink," he answers, and Charles swings off the leg he had slung over Arthur's thigh.

"Come back to bed after," Charles mumbles, closing his eyes and making himself comfortable in bed again. Arthur feels a little bit of himself melt, he bends down to place a kiss to Charles' forehead, the man blinking an eye open, tilting his head up so Arthur kisses his lips instead.

"I'll be back in a minute," Arthur says with a small smile, pressing another kiss to the corner of Charles' mouth, "don't take up the entire bed while I'm gone"

"Then don't be late," Charles whispers, already drifting off again. Arthur chuckles to himself, leaving the room with the air light in his lungs and his mood lifted. 

The camp is mostly back to normal, Arthur glances at his pocket watch, nearing noon now; John and Javier have switched with Karen and Micah, John sipping coffee tiredly and Javier now sleeping on his bedroll. Arthur stretches his neck as he walks to the water basin. 

"How are you feeling?" 

Arthur looks up, cup suspended in mid-air as Hosea stands beside him. Arthur fills the cup, standing up straight and sparing Hosea a smile.

"Okay, I guess," He says, voice gravelly and rumbling uncomfortably in his throat, he sips on the water, thankfully not as warm as he expected, "how's the kid?"

"Kieran?" Hosea asks, looking behind him to where Arthur can see Grimshaw fussing, "alright, spooked, though, got a rough scar on his neck from that noose"

"poor soul," Arthur mumbles, and Hosea nods in agreement.

"You didn't fare off much better"

"Least I didn't almost get kidnapped," Arthur mumbles, feeling a phantom pain from his shoulder. It never did go back to normal again, numbness always hangs onto his fingers, but he learned to ignore it. 

He doesn't think Colm would take Kieran as hostage...

Colm is one vindictive bastard, Arthur witnessed what he does to his victims, hell, what _he_ was with Colm trying to keep him alive. Kieran would've been-

A shudder runs up his spine, and he shakes the thought out of his head. The kid is alive, and that's what matters. "So we're going to move or what?" Arthur asks, and Hosea's face falls a bit, previously crossed arms dropping to his side.

A defeated sigh, Arthur already knows the answer before Hosea says it, "Dutch says...well...you know how Dutch is with Colm," Arthur frowns into his cup, "he takes it personally"

"Gonna take it personally too if the camp gets attacked and we lose half of the gang?" Arthur says, poison clear in his tone, "we're compromised, and after-" he cuts himself off, lowering his voice to a hushed whisper "after _Sean_? you think we can fight with morale so low people are half drinking themselves to death?" 

"Of course I don't" Hosea rubs his forehead, frustration clear. Between them, both men know this is all because of Dutch's petty disputes. One of which had caused them to lose Sean. Arthur is starting to worry, revenge is an easy game to fall into, and Dutch seems to have slipped right into it. "But...you know how Dutch is"

"Unfortunately," Arthur mumbles, feeling a little guilty, Dutch is Dutch, he's got his vices, and he's got his virtues.

His stubbornness hanging somewhere between. 

"How about you rest up," Hosea says after a beat of silence, "if anything happens...we need you to be...you know what I mean"

"Of course," Arthur nods, "I'm always ready to fight, you know that Hosea"

"Yeah," Hosea agrees with a weary smile, "that's why I worry," he adds with a soft voice, and Arthur looks away from the older man's steady gaze, "go rest up, Arthur" and Arthur listens, heading up with a mind full of questions--doubts, Dutch would call it. He finding Charles snoring lightly in his bed, the sight only helps him calm a little. Everything might be unstable around them, but at least Arthur has this, this little love story, to keep him sane. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!  
> [my tumblr](https://samwrittenbysam.tumblr.com/)  
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/Samwrittenbysam) :DDDD

**Author's Note:**

> hi! both fic title and chapter title are from Shakespeare's sonnets, some of my favorites, fic title from sonnet 10, chapter title from sonnet 47.
> 
> Comments are appreciated! :D


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